Oliver and I have been tidying the attic up.
This is rather an optimistic description of our activities, and indeed, makes it sound as though there was a shiny pristine result at the end, which I regret to say, there wasn’t.
Of course Oliver is not going back to Norland next term. He has been granted a year’s leave in which he is going to try and get in the Army. If he succeeds, then he will be off to fight the Russians, or whatever the Army does these days, probably fighting the Americans if our beloved leaders carry on upsetting President Trump. If not, then he will be going back to Norland.
This has meant that virtually the entire contents of his flat, incorporating bedding, towels, uniform and various bits of catering equipment, not to mention his bicycle, has been transported back home.
If he does not go back to Norland then he will not need any of it again for years and years, since presumably the Army will not wish him to wear his Norland uniform, even though they are trying to make economies. If he does go back to Norland then he will need the whole lot again in September next year, and so it can’t just be hoofed out or flogged on eBay.
Hence it had all got to be put somewhere whilst we wait, in suspense, for an outcome.
Our house is not large, and Oliver’s part of it is already filled to capacity, hence the utilisation of the attic as repository.
Of course, as you are aware, the attic is already my ironing and sewing room. It is the space where all of our smart clothes are neatly hung in carefully labelled bags on hangers, on long clothes rails covered in sheets, like the costumes for next year’s pantomime. It is the space where much of the detritus from the camper van has been stored, massive seat cushions and a few superfluous pillows. It is the space where Oliver’s childhood occupations have been dumped, being the sort of PlayStation games that used to come in a box instead of flowing magically through the cyber-ether, and Nerf guns. There is a large, overflowing bookcase. There are hat boxes and glove boxes and scarf boxes and yards and yards of stored upholstery fabrics. There are our suitcases and Oliver’s drum kit.
In short, it is pretty full already.
The influx of a houseful of Norland equipment has made the beams creak a bit.
Today we set about reorganising it and squeezing things into a more manageable space.
It was jolly difficult, I can tell you.
I had purchased some enormous vacuum storage bags for the purpose. If you have never used these, then I can jolly well recommend them, you get them on Amazon and they are ace. You stuff them tightly full of all the T-shirts and unfashionable trousers that you will never wear again but can’t quite bear to throw away just yet, in case you get thinner or the Bay City Rollers come back into vogue. Then you slide a handy zip-sealer along the top and squish all of the air out with a little pump, all the while carefully flattening the bag. After all of that you finish up with a rigid flat bag about two inches thick that can be stood up in a corner out of the way, or used to block the draught underneath a door, whichever works best.
We did this. We folded everything and stored it all away, until every inaccessible corner of the loft was jammed full of Norland things, I am not looking forward to the moment when I have got to retrieve the Christmas decorations, but it was done. I could not think what to do with his ironing board, and so it is still there, propped against the wall. It is nicer than mine so I might shove mine at the back of the chest of drawers and steal his.
It took us all afternoon, but I can use my sewing machine again now.
The house is bulging at the seams.
